The Final Countdown
by coleridgeandco
Summary: "Charlotte Eve Cattermole–" "–I haven't got a middle name–" "–shush, it sounds fabulous – you're in love with this mystery bloke–" "–he's my friend, Dom!" "–Aha! So that's who you're in love with!" "–I'm not in love–" "Who're you in love with, Charlie?" A male voice suddenly asked. Oh, no! "Go away, dear cousin," I heard her order. Silence. And then she understood. Whoopsidaisies.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Potterverse, or the story would have never ended.

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_Prologue – Part 1 – September 5__th__ 2021_

_350 days._

_2100 classes._

_94500 minutes._

That's how much separates the class of 2023 from graduation, excluding breaks and holidays.

Oh, believe me, I know it's ridiculous of me to know these numbers. But I cannot help it. Numbers, their properties and how Arithmancy works to contribute to the basis of magic have always fascinated me. Counting down to big events is just a side effect.

_5670000 seconds_.

I also know how unbearably boring and cliché this is going to sound, but the thought of entering the 'real world' – like grown-ups simply _love_ to call it – terrifies me. And let's keep on floating in clichés, shall we? It also thrills me. The thought of having to do everything on my own, of not being at the bottom of the social hierarchy, but maybe going up just a little, gaining responsibilities and finally leaving the neverending drama that is school... it's going to be great. Not to mention the _freedom_.  
On the other hand, like every other person who finds him or herself almost at the end of their schooling, thinking I will have to manage to do everything on my own makes me want to Apparate on some island where you live all day sunbathing and Summoning coconuts and shrimp. I could live on one of those islands I don't know the name of. It would be fun. I would probably miss my family, but not that much.

But I digress. The point is, here I am, Charlotte Cattermole, sixteen years old, thirty minutes before I have to board the Hogwarts Express to start - gasp - my second-to-last year of schooling.

Pretty wicked, uh?

I know it's not my NEWTs year, but in the next twelve-ish month we will all turn seventeen, we'll be allowed to use magic outside of school! (Of course it was going to be the thing I'm most excited about). We'll have to make the final decisions about which subject to take as NEWTs. The Prefects will have to work extra hard to be chosen as Head Girl or Head Boy. I'm a Prefect, but I don't care that much about being a Head. Too much work.

As you can probably tell from the dreaming of a life on a tropical island and the fact that I don't want to 'enhance my possibilities of a better future' – Mum's favourite quote of the week – by becoming Head Girl, I'm very lazy.

I also happen to be feeling quite pathetic recently, since I realised I have more-than-friendly feelings towards the one and only Fred Weasley, who also is my best friend. Who I happen to have a huge crush on. That's how pathetic I am. Charlie Cattermole, the pathetic Gryffindor Prefect who fell for her best friend.

I don't even know how it started. All I remember is how we became friends on the first trip to Hogsmeade in third year, and a little after that, I can't recall a moment where I thought of him as just a friend. Ridiculous. But he's so funny, and caring, and he's got a smile... Oh, that ear-to-ear smile. It's to die for. And his _hair_-

"... and try to write more often and be less bitchy this year, Charlie," my Mum finished her speech – which had probably been going on for the whole ride on our Muggle car from home to King's Cross and on the walk to Platform 9 ¾ – giving me a bear hug – surprisingly bear-y for someone her size – and went on to kiss my little brother goodbye. He was a second year and had already all the younger girls at Hogwarts at his feet. During the last school year he had four girlfriends _at the same time _only in the last two months, and neither of them new about the other three. Romantic.

After the usual hug-and-kiss by my Mum, I grabbed both my brother's trunk and mine – gotta love being the older, big, Quidditch-playing sister – and got on the train. My brother followed me; he was one of the last ones who were rushing inside before the Express left.

I ruffled his hair before he found the perfect excuse to escape from me in his friend, Ethan Zabini – a rather lanky and totally hyper twelve-year-old – who was calling him. "Matthew! Matthewww!" He prolonged the 'w' sound. Ear-piercing. "Where were you, mate? We thought you were going to come to school with Professor Cattermole..."

Another fantastic thing: my Dad is _Professor_ Cattermole. He's the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Great, isn't it? It was the perfect pretext for rumours last year, when everybody said I had been made Prefect because of him. Or in second year, when the whole school thought I made the Quidditch team because my Dad was part of the Hogwarts staff. The rumours stopped when I a) lead Gryffindor to the Quidditch Cup – although I admit Fred and I are an awesome Beaters combination, and James Potter is the best Keeper Hogwarts has seen since Oliver Wood; and b) when I had the idea to organise 'educational travels' for older students. The Professors loved it and the students loved it even more, because it was way easier to escape the teachers' control when we weren't in the school they ruled. I mean, taught at. Not ruled. Taught. Definitely taught.

As I watched my little brother pretending to be some sort of weight lifter and carrying his trunk on his shoulders down the aisle of the train, I felt someone poking my side.

"Oi!" I was so startled – and damn _ticklish_ – that I turned around too fast, tripped on my own feet, hit my trunk and fell on top of it. It opened, obviously, and a river of previously neatly folded clothes, organised books, tampons, make up bags and my _underwear _came flowing out of it. Fred was standing, holding up his finger, still in the same position he had when he had apparently tried to catch my attention by tickling me. Typical afternoon sit-com scene, isn't it?

He started laughing. "That was a perfect Charlie reaction! Thanks, I needed my morning laugh!" He picked up something from the floor. "Nice bra. What size is this–"

I interrupted him by standing up and grabbing my bra. "36B, Freddie. Now that your curiosity has been satisfied, give it back." I snatched it back and started picking up my stuff from the floor, trying to put it back into my trunk as neatly as possible.

"What is this? Your _feminine things_? For your _crazy times_?" He was pointing at a box of tampons on the top of a pile of pads, pain-fighting draughts and anti-blemishes potions, a disgusted look on his face.

"There's no need to be so nauseated, you Middle Ages man," I finished putting hastily my stuff back into my trunk – sitting on clothes and stuffing my socks into my boots were involved – and took my 'feminine things' from Fred's hands, as he had called them. "And at least I'm driven by hormones only once a month." I finally closed my trunk and looked up at Fred. He had high cheekbones, like his mother, olive skin, crazy, curly brown hair, reddish cheeks and a few freckles on his nose, having summer just ended. A dimple on his left cheek. Unusually pointy eye teeth. He had become taller in the three weeks I hadn't seen him. And cuter. Damn him and his good genes.

Fred took the trunk out of my hands and started making his way to a compartment towards the end of the train, nudging me to follow him. "Is that your way to tell me I'm a hormonal man?"

"A hormonal _boy_," I corrected him, opening the door of an empty compartment when he stopped in front of it. "And weren't you the one who started dating Alice Longbottom because you - your words - '_needed_ to get laid'?" I raised an eyebrow and sighed loudly when he delayed looking at me by taking his sweet time putting my trunk on the rack above the seats and locking the door.

"I _did_ need to get laid," he said when he plopped down on the seat opposite mine and placed his legs on my lap. I pushed them away and he put them again on my lap and we continued behaving like eleven-year-olds for a while, until he won. He always won. Arrgggh. "I still do. In fact, I might look for another broom cupboard buddy. Or, we could speed up the terms of our agreement..." He winked.

"We definitely could _not_." You see, a few months ago he joked about the fact that once in our life, if I were not a 'virgin' anymore - an idiotic social construct, I know, but I'd like my first time having sex be driven more by love or hormones or both rather than some Firewhiskey-driven agreement - and we both happened to be single, we would hook up. Just once, to show the world we weren't in love. It was a joke, and it was _his_ idea, but no matter how gigantic my crush could be, I still wasn't in love with him. I didn't even believe love was worth all the trouble people went through. As I said, I'm lazy.

"If you say so," he said.

"I _do_ say so. We're not in love and especially, we have nothing to prove to _anyone_. Those gossipers can say whatever they like," I concluded. The rumour mill must've had a very low opinion of me to think I was in love with my best friend. Well, they were partly right, even if only for their assumptions that Freddie was not just a friend for me.

"Whatever." Fred pulled away his legs, went down on his knees and put his hands together, as if he was praying. "So, can you help me with my Defence essay?"

I rolled my eyes. And so it begins.

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_So... here it is. My first attempt at fanfiction. Just a little note: the first 10 chapters will be all set in sixth year, as a sort of prologue – I know it's a lot, but some things had to be said before the action started – but the story starts here anyway, as future chapters will mention things that happened in these 'prologues'. Also, reviews are welcome. Positive, negative and neutral, if they're constructive in any way.  
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_Hope you enjoy it._

_C&amp;C_


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